


The 10 C's to Success

by Oboeist3



Category: Hot Guy P.I. (Webcomic)
Genre: (just a smidge though), (pats gently) this schmidt can fit so much projection, Autistic Schmidt, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, a frankly absurd amount of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: "Schmidt knows it’s not a big deal, that it’s nothing drastic. Nothing worth making a fuss over. Like mediocre WiFi, enough to make the page load at a persistent crawl. Worthy of a grumble, nothing more. Connection issues. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Try again."A story about mysteries, friendship, and things not yet said.
Relationships: Schmidt/Nando Sy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	The 10 C's to Success

**cold**

Schmidt knows it’s not a big deal, that it’s nothing drastic. Nothing worth making a fuss over. Like mediocre WiFi, enough to make the page load at a persistent crawl. Worthy of a grumble, nothing more. Connection issues. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Try again. 

It’s more noticeable when he’s younger. He remembers, vaguely, the Tea Ladies whispering about him to Mommy while he plays with his dinosaurs. There’s a hint of something in the way they call him ‘quiet’, like the drop of honey in their drinks. Even after stirring, it doesn’t really integrate. 

He likes space. Likes to sit in the library, even before he can read. Likes being the first to sit at an empty table in class. His peers call him weird. It’s his primary descriptor for a very long time. 

His family calls him diligent, because he never has to be asked to do something twice. He eats his vegetables without prodding. He never tries to skip his homework.

Every picture has a perfect smile.

**curiosity**

If there’s one thing he has in spades, it’s questions. All the usual ones sure, about why the sky is blue - something to do with light apparently - and the logistics of the various holiday representatives. He’s been told that the Tooth Fairy has very good business sense to earn all her quarters. 

But sometimes he’ll stray into territory he isn’t supposed to. He reads Mommy’s fashion magazines, just to see what they’re about. He sits outside Dad’s office and just listens to him on the phone, ‘Yes sir, I completely agree sir.’ A lot of the time these forays from the norm don’t go anywhere interesting, but Schmidt feels like he has to check. 

Maybe that’s why he likes mysteries so much. How it encourages the exploration. A lot of people seem so focused on finding the culprit, the solution. They rush past all the stuff that makes it compelling. The characters that didn’t do it, but are lying anyway. Their motivations, he thinks, are much more interesting. With the criminal, it’s always money or power. Maybe love, if they’re a romantic. Side characters have secrets that tie around each other like the Gordian knot, shame and self-interest and loathing that makes obstacles towards the truth. 

Schmidt doesn’t want to be like them though. He wants to be like the detective who figures these things out, usually with an air of splendid ease and charm. They know how people work, and how to work people to their favor. They’re liked even when they’re odd, and begrudgingly admired even when they aren’t liked. 

A Watson would be nice too. 

**calculation**

He’s often met with surprise when he says his favorite subject in school was math. They see the undercut and the pierced ears and they peg him as a former theatre kid. Which he supposes isn’t entirely false, he was in the drama club. But not for the reasons people assume. 

Just because Schmidt was a man-shaped being who liked other man-shaped beings had nothing to do with it. He’s there for the stories, mostly, and because he’s a bit musical. He always found the raucous absurdity of acting types a comfort. He’s not a great actor himself, but he’s pretty, and that can be good enough. 

Anyway, it isn’t arithmetic that interests him. That’s straightforward enough, and he can enjoy the action of solving problems one after another as much as anyone. But it’s the more complex parts that draw his fascination. He likes solving multiple integrals and long factorizations by hand. He _adores_ a good optimization problem, tweaking x and y until everything fits. 

Selfishly, Schmidt sometimes finds himself wishing people could be so easily deciphered. 

**caring I**

It shouldn’t have mattered, his history, his disposition. By all reasonable measures, the events of that day should never have happened at all. Not the way that they did. He’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to quite wrap his head around it. He can recall it well enough, at least. 

Schmidt plonks himself into the car, his whole body thrumming because this is it, his very first case! He manages to tap down the worst of the excess energy, redirect it into simultaneously playing 2048 and checking his client’s messages. He ponders the current whereabouts of her ‘bunch of stuff’. It’s vague, which he thinks is probably not standard. Don’t clients generally want the detective to have all the information they could need? He wonders, with a little excitement, if she’s one of the interesting liars. 

The driver is invisible in the way that all good customer service professionals are. He’s making small talk, asking about where he’s going, and why he’s going there. Schmidt tells him, in a vague way, distracted by his own thoughts. It isn’t until he sees the tell-tale slide over to a music playlist that he realizes he basically just stopped talking. 

Normally he’d let it fizzle out like that, feeling a bit awkward, but knowing that reviving the conversation wouldn’t improve things. This time he really does feel bad about it though. The driver had said that what he was doing was cool, and he seemed genuinely interested in Schmidt’s work, not just running on a routine. Besides, right now he could use someone to talk to. 

He smiles when the driver looks back at him, catches a glimpse of a strong jawline, pink streaked in his hair, the edge of glasses that seem geeky enough to almost be chic. He’s hot, but that isn’t the reason his heartbeat’s speeding up. Not the primary one, at least. 

He says that he seems smart. It’s a tiny compliment, it should barely register, but...he doesn’t get that much nowadays. He gets pretty or handsome or hot. That’s fine, it’s good to know that he’s still appetizing to the ever changing market. It has a tendency to make him feel a bit commodified, though. 

Schmidt rides the high of the compliment through the rest of the ride, thanks the driver and plans to leave a very generous tip with his five stars. His mood dips below the clouds again when he sees his case’s solution, precariously stacked but neatly labeled. It’d be a funny contradiction if it wasn’t such a bummer. 

He then has a light bulb of a thought, walks back to where his ride is still parked, knocks on the window. He flirts a little, because yea, this guy is definitely hot, and he is about to ask him for a favor. 

Fernando is a nice name, but it’s got this old man feel that really doesn’t suit him, so Schmidt shortens it. He’s a big believer in abbreviation, though he’s cautious with his own usage. Always afraid he’ll use it in the wrong context and come off as an oaf. He’s got enough of an uphill battle being taken seriously. 

Nando has this quippy energy, the way he ribs Schmidt without actually making fun of him, and he’s strong enough to pick up most of the bags one handed. His eyes keep drifting down to his arms, wondering what they look like under the puffy material of his jacket. 

He’s watching him carefully Tetris the bags in the back when two ladies call out his name. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know they’re fans, can hear the excited waver of their voices. They ask him for a picture nicely enough, so he slips into work mode, winks and smiles just a little crooked - which is the current trend - throws up a peace sign that ends up looking more like a less than symbol. 

Nando’s in the background, still puzzling out how to make the bags fit. Schmidt could ask him to move, but he enjoys the candid nature of it. Knows he’ll be liking the picture later, and not just because he likes all the pictures he’s asked to pose in. It’s evidence, proof that they actually got him for those involved, and it helps him keep track of who’s he’s already met. 

By the time he’s finished, the sun has started to dip below the horizon, bathing everything red-orange. That means it’s been at least half an hour, probably closer to forty-five minutes. He’s gonna owe Nando a hell of a tip, and an explanation. He gives the latter when he’s settled in the back again, can tell he’s not seeming as collected as he wants to. Maybe that’s why he says it, so straight out. 

“I like you. Work with me.”

The beginning of something beautiful. 

**coin**

He knows, he _knows_ the only reason Nando agrees to come back the next morning is because of the money. Could practically see the dollar signs glinting in his eyes. Money’s not something Schmidt cares to think much about, but he’s self-aware enough to know that’s because he’s never had to worry about it.

He and his sister grew up behind a wrought iron gate, they went to a private school with sort of cute looking uniforms. The scholarships he rode into college were nice, but he wouldn’t have needed them. His credit score is immaculate. 

Schmidt tries not to be selfish about it. He has a Patreon receipt a mile long, he buys locally, he chips into most GoFundMes that cross his feed. People need money, he has money. It works out, as much as anything can. 

Why is it different this time? Why does he care that Nando has a monetary incentive? It’s reasonable, sensible. It shouldn’t make his stomach twist up in a way that has him tempted to curl onto cool tile of his bathroom. It shouldn’t feel like this. 

Schmidt sighs, form flopped over the coach, forearm over his eyes. He’s shoved the bags in the corner, not neat, but out of the way. In the kitchen, there’s all the ingredients for a vegetable stir-fry, fresh and dewey from the farmer’s market and already on his story. He’s supposed to put up the recipe with the picture of his final product. He already has the overlay on his phone, white font with thin line edges.

He doesn’t do that. Instead when he finally pulls himself up, it’s to pour himself some of the eleven-dollar Cabernet into a container that could more accurately be described as a jug than a glass. Pretty though, with the stars on the side. 

Schmidt takes a picture of it and puts the recipe over that, promises he’ll do it for real some other time. Scrolls through his mentions until he finds the picture with Nando in it. Stares for a couple minutes after he’s liked it, zoomed into the corner. He’s smiling, he can feel it. Too big to be professional, but this isn’t professional, is it? Thinking about how attractive Nando is, with his pensive expression, his fluffy hair, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. Is he all angles, under the layers? Collarbones? Hips?

He takes a swig of his middle-shelf wine to chase away that line of thought. They’re going to be business partners, he can’t afford that kind of liability. Acknowledging he’s handsome, that’s fine. In his line of work it’s something you’re supposed to notice. But these other feelings, the ones that make him feel simultaneously ill and giddy. He scarcely knows what they are and it scares him. Has him pulling at the instinct to restrain himself, be quiet, be good. 

When all that’s left of his wine is a little red rim, and he’s buzzing at that point slightly after tipsy and before dangerously drunk, he DMs a sign maker on Instagram and asks for a rush job. Nothing fancy, but bold, easy to read. 

Schmidt’s willing to pay whatever price is necessary. 

**cerulean**

That night, he doesn’t so much dream as remember. His subconscious drifts though a muddled, wine-soaked montage of the first person who ever inspired feelings that left him terrified: Jenny. 

Jenny, who sits next to him in the seven o’clock SOCI 101 section freshman year, sucking a lollipop. Hands him one because he ‘seems cool.’ There’s a handful of big moments, like that, scattered through the years. 

That time she wouldn’t talk to him for three days because her mother had said his Korean pronunciation was better, even though she practiced every day. Even though she tells him she hates feeling like the foreigner in her own family. The phrase sticks with him, somehow. 

A late-night, early-morning sophomore year, when she trusts him to smear bleach into her hair over the bathtub because she’s tired of looking like a good little girl. Ocean blue, the box says, but it ends up looking quite a bit more like Hatsune Miku. She leans into it, gains a habit of throwing peace signs and winking. Idolize your idol eyes.

“You will never be as cool as Cardcaptor Sakura.” he says once, and it sticks. Becomes imbued with all sorts of layers with each year after. It’s an insult, probably, but also a kind of inspirational mantra. It’s one of those things you can’t explain after. Had to be there to watch it grow. 

A bad day, when everything was too big and too loud and he wanted to _stop_. She sticks edible cookie dough into the gap of his blanket mound, leans against his side. Plucks a book from her button-laden bag and reads him poetry. Good poetry, not like the stuff from school. Swear words and no blushing innuendo for sex. Surely there is a place for that but at that moment he needs frank and honest and yea, a little dirty. When he says thank you the next day she doesn’t say you’re welcome. She says of course. 

And then there’s all the little things, all the things that he can’t put one memory to but knows are true. Like her notebook just for stickers. That she laughs through her nose. Her favorite number is three, and she uses it everywhere. The amount of creamer pods for her coffee. How many emojis she punctuates her texts with. 

Jenny, who gently tugs him out of his carefully kept comfort zone, through electives and gay bars, who signs him up for social media that isn’t Linked In. Kick starts his career. Still tags him as #lollipopbud.

Who is quite possibly the best friend he’s ever had.

**crumble**

Schmidt starts his morning with a cracked skull of a headache, the kind that manages to throb even through ibuprofen and bacon grease. He turns it into canid content, posts a picture of a fake yawn that mirrors his real one, the hair that looks bed-worn but is substantially more intentional. 

The likes and comments drip in like coffee through a filter as he does his morning yoga, flicks between all the apps that require checking. Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, work email #1. Work email #2, schmidt.detective, has objects of interest. 

The receipt for his first ‘case’, $1200 plus tip. He’s already Venmoed Nando’s half, but he clicks over there anyway. Contemplates why his profile picture is a stock picture of a burrito for at least two minutes. Another receipt for the sign, complete with smudgy picture of it set up. He sends back his standard thank you, adds a tip on the invoice. Adjusts his expenses spreadsheet accordingly, looks like eating out without sponsors is a no-go this month. Not a major upset. 

It’s the third email that has him perking up, from the owner of the pizza place. He’s agreed to let Schmidt play arbiter, though he definitely seems doubtful that it’ll come to a peaceful conclusion. Not entirely unwarranted pessimism, given Deena’s attitude. She’s stubborn and prideful even by New York standards. 

He gets showered then dresses in purposefully dull tones: grey three-quarters sleeve shirt and high-waisted tan pants. The ones that make his unfortunately flat board of a bottom look almost appealing, if he puts his hip just right. Fingerless gloves, as usual. Brown boots with thick laces, walking shoes. His coat is stretching the look a little, with the caped sleeves and high collar, but he rationalizes the decision by thinking there’s a myriad of detectives with cool looking coats. 

Schmidt heads to his office space, waiting for his new companion. He considers actually unpacking some of the boxes, but worries the exertion with ruin the polished image he’s going for. Instead he brews coffee in the little kitchenette, pours it into a mug he accidentally stole from a friend’s cabinet. He likes its little red smile, even though the spacing of it tends towards creepy rather than cute. 

He’s two sips in when Nando enters, asking about the sign. Schmidt...doesn’t actually remember what his drunk logic was, but he makes something suitably agreeable up on the spot, gets a hint of flirting in too. He is looking handsome, even as he’s only followed the letter of his instructions. Elastic, loose-style pants are not categorically different from sweatpants, even as they are technically distinct. Seeing as it vibes with the casual nature of today’s investigation, he doesn’t comment directly. He has a feeling it’s going to take months of subtle direction to get Nando anywhere close to couture. A zing of pleasure swoops through him at the thought. 

After explanations are given, they walk to the pizza place, and Schmidt has to hide a smile when the crisp early-spring air fogs up Nando’s glasses, makes him grumble and wipe them clear on his sweater. He catches a better glimpse of his eyes then, and they’re brown. Not earthy brown or chocolate brown, just brown. A simple color, unadorned with additional descriptors. It suits him.

The pizza owner is remarkably forthcoming about the location and whereabouts of Deena’s dog. Though his idea of a crazy, aggressive dog is...different, from Schmidt’s initial mental image. He matches Nando’s incredulous declaration with something amused and dry. But then, the ease and humor of the situation vanishes. Because that dog has a _knife_.

If pressed, he wouldn’t call his fear of knives and other bladed weapons disproportionate. Their main purpose was to stab, which is inherently scary. He’ll admit that maybe his reactions are more intense than the average individual, but he’s not a coward. He’s cautious. That’s all. 

Schmidt is clinging to Nando because he’d like the comfort. Not because he needs the support to keep his knees from collapsing. He’s sweating because this jacket is well-insulated, too insulated. It’s all environment, this clamminess, the raised texture of his skin. His eyes are plastered open because this is combat, every bit of observation counts. Not because closing them will have memories wriggle to the surface like termites. 

_~~He’s not crying, why isn’t he crying, what’s wrong with him?~~ _

When Nando pulls away, points out the obvious, he sinks his nails into his palms. Grateful for the hard leather of his gloves, otherwise he’d be bleeding. Not sure if he can handle blood right now, on top of it all. 

~~_Blood and urine together almost smell sweet, isn’t that funny?_ ~~

Despite his assertion that dogs can’t use knives, Nando gets stabbed anyway. Shallow according to the pictures he takes, because he _can not_ look directly. Plus it’s evidence, proof. Though he dimly registers you can’t take a dog to court. 

~~_The flash of the camera hurts so much more, why do they keep doing that?_ ~~

Leaning against the wall of the pizzeria when he stumbles in to get bandages for Nando’s wound helps a little, the brick is cool and solid, and breathing in the smell of pizza drives others back. Deep breathes, focus on something else, anything else. Push the feelings and memories and anxieties behind the door and lock it, board it up. 

He’s better, when he returns to the alley. Still shaking, still sweating, but at least he can stand. Can hear Nando’s new plan, even as he struggles to understand it. Can only vaguely appreciate the fact that he isn’t all angles, because there’s muscle filling him out and a tattoo on his shoulder, pink and purple pastel.

Calms even further once the knife has clattered away, and Deena’s own fluffy orb of a dog is in his arms. Warm, a pleasant texture under his fingertips. Everything’s ok, everyone’s safe. 

He hasn’t completely fallen apart. 

**caring II**

Schmidt’s the one who organizes the case’s conclusion, which is only fair considering Nando did the hard part. He video calls Deena, who’s much less of a dramatic flint now that she actually knows her dog is ok.

“Sit down.” he demands, pulling out a squeaking metal chair and pointing emphatically at it. Nando tilts his head but complies. 

“I feel like I’m about to get lectured or something.” he remarks, and the slump of his shoulders does make his look remarkably like a petulant school child. “Is there actually a detective protocol for dealing with uh, armed animals?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” he says, too focused to catch that it’s probably a joke. “I’m going to properly deal with your wound. Things were too tense, before.” he says, gets the full first aid that he rummaged through before and kneels. Pulls off the layered small bandages as quickly as he can, it’ll hurt more to draw out. Dabs Neosporin lightly enough that it shouldn’t wrinkle the bigger bandage he smooths on top.

“Yea, I guess it was.” he says, looking fidgety, a bit awkward. Schmidt’s used to that silence, used to failing at communication enough that there’s gaps, but like in the car, he can’t let it sit. 

“I’m sorry about your pants.” he says, which is actually the thing he’s least sorry about. Not quite an atrocity to fashion, these, but up close he can tell they’re at least an affront. “I can send you reimbursement. It is a work expense.” he says, though he’ll admit that’s skirting on technicality. 

“Nah, it’s fine. I have like, six of these at home.” he says, runs a hand through his hair. The movement of his arm makes the tattoo stand out. It’s a tiger, though he doesn’t know enough about wildlife to make it more specific. He’s about 80% sure there aren’t actually pink ones though. 

There’s also a scab near his elbow, a pebbly thing from when he dove against the concrete. Schmidt frowns, rights himself so he can dig through his pants’ pockets. “Here. For your arm.” he says, handing him a little container of lotion. 

“Oh. I didn’t even notice that.” he says, has to crane himself at an odd angle to see, considering the knife dog is still in his lap, wrapped in his hoodie. Schmidt frowns, can still feel the chill creeping in from the outside. Nando doesn’t even have sleeves. He takes off his coat-cape and drapes it over his shoulders. Does his best not to linger, but he can feel pink rising in his cheeks anyway.

“I’m going to order a pizza. What toppings do you want?” he asks, turning away so that he might not notice. What mortification that would be. 

“I’m good with anything except mushrooms and pineapple.” he says, because of course he does. Schmidt adores mushrooms on pizza.

Deena arrives then, silver-haired and so young, without her lighting, her stage makeup. He knows, as much as anyone does, that the person in videos isn’t exactly real. Just like the Schmidt on his Instagram isn’t. But he’s glad to know that she genuinely loves this dog, wasn’t just exploiting the situation. That she was worried and it came out as anger. Though her pride keeps her from apologizing directly, she agrees to do a video. Even to give their services a shout-out. The pizzeria owner rolls his eyes, unsurprised, but there’s a little smile there when he hands over their pizza, waving the dollar charge.

So content is he with having solved something close to an actual case, that it’s only as they begin walking back to the office that Schmidt really registers that Nando is still cradling knife dog in his arms. When he asks why, Nando expresses sympathy for the ‘poor guy’, says he can’t leave him there. Pointing out that he stabbed him does nothing to dissuade him of the notion. 

He offers forgiveness with a sunshine smile, turns his marketing reasoning back on him while looking picture-perfect adorable. He’s so clever, kind and good, strong and brave, beautiful in a way that you catch instead of just seeing immediately. Schmidt want to figure out all his little details, wants to know him, wants - 

Oh. Oh no. Aesthetic appreciation is understandable, and a spark of lust is forgivable, but this? He had no idea what he’s going to do with this feeling. It presses up against his chest, like a beast in a cage. Monstrously intense, impossible to put to rest by will alone. So he gives in, a little. Cedes to this request with feigned neutrality, so he doesn’t say something stupid. Like ‘you can have whatever you want.’

Schmidt refuses to let himself even think of a four letter word.

**caution**

He arrives at the office early the next day, no case, but plenty of things to assemble. He spent over an hour last night meditating, pulling himself out of his own brain, letting all the contents he’d pushed aside or refused to acknowledge collapse below him. It’s a bit like watching a bridge bend in the wind until it breaks, grateful you aren’t on it. He’s tired when he returns to the wreckage, barely even has the energy to put on pajamas before he goes to sleep. 

Schmidt had an epiphany in the morning, silly in retrospect, that he could talk about this with Jenny. She was always good at helping him out when he reached his end of ends in college, ‘burned out’, she’d call it. Force him to put away his study materials and turn off his brain, stop turning everything into a problem. 

He sends her a text asking to meet up and spends most of the morning assembling and filling the bookshelf. The books he starts to fill it with are mostly mysteries, Christie and Cooper and Carré, Doyle and Highsmith and Rendell. No Fleming, because the misogyny and homophobia is too vitriolic, and he thinks Cold War tensions make lousy motives. Poe’s there though, along with Snicket and Bosch, because Schmidt is a big believer in the power of tragedy. Not in needlessly sad stories. There’s a big difference between sad endings you’re prepared for, and sad endings you aren’t.

He calls Nando when the second Dësk arrives at the front, asking if he’s available to help set up the office. IKEA instructions are marginally more comprehensible with two, but that’s an excuse. He just wants another chance to see him. 

He shows up wearing a gray blob of a sweater, which Schmidt knows is doing him no favors, since he’s seen what’s under it. He did deign to wear actual pants though, white, with little cut-outs at the knees. It’s remarkably fashionable for Nando, and it gives him some hope that he might yet be reformed. His sneakers are the same type as yesterday, but a different pair, a different color. When he takes off the sweater to get into the guts of the Dësk, he notices they match his shirt, maroon, all obtuse angles on the neckline.

It’s interesting, seeing that Nando can be stylish, especially because he seems fairly invested in being hidden. Big sweaters and loose pants hide the eye-catching fitness of him. He keeps his head down and his voice quiet. It’s not shyness, exactly. He doesn’t seem to have much of a problem talking to other people, and making his opinion known when it needs to be. He just likes a low profile. Schmidt knows he’s never been able to do that, no matter how hard he tried. Too present, even when he wasn’t loud. Too eye-catching, too sharp. Too much. 

Even Jenny, who says she likes it when he opens up, must be a little sick of it. She hasn’t replied to any of his texts, and there’s something off with her Instagram. Usually she responds to comments around when she posts, and her story is chock full of little things that aren’t worth a real post. Today there’s just silence, a void without notifications. When he checks his posts, he notices she hasn’t liked them either, even though she always checks his page at lunch. 

His worry spikes when she misses a scheduled post. She makes those in advance, only needs a quick click of approval. Even if she wasn’t at her best, needed a break, she wouldn’t miss those. She could be seriously hurt, and unable to reach her phone. His whole chest aches when he thinks of it. 

He knows his concern comes out poorly, sharp words he hurls at both knife dog and his owner. He’s a little surprised Nando even offers to drive him, after. He turns on a winning, though not very genuine, smile, and is indulged. The drive is short, and the code to the front door is more muscle than memory, but he still doesn’t have a key for her actual apartment. Keeps forgetting to pick it up. His lock-picking tools are on him though, and that’s good enough.

Schmidt pauses his task when Nando asks about Jenny, more because of the tone than the actual question. There’s something in there, something he doesn’t have the ability to pick out yet. Hasn’t trained himself on enough samples to approximate a guess. The one about his ability to pick locks is easier to understand. He’s surprised, because this isn’t something he expected from him. No one seems to expect much from him. He’s not really sure why. Just because he’s a fool doesn’t mean he’s dumb. 

The apartment has the same wrong feeling as Jenny’s Instagram. It’s not the individual disarray, it’s what that means. She sets up her house this way because the act of careful item management and organization brings her peace. She likes having complete control over her space, smoothing out the edges and making everything crisp and clean. Schmidt’s fairly organized too, but this level always felt too overwhelming to him. He can’t put that much value on his stuff, or he’d never be able to get rid of anything. 

There’s no bottles under the couch, and her houseplants are dewey, misted from this morning. That means she didn’t go on a bender. It’s been a few years since she has, but it’s always something of a worry. They both have a tendency to pickle their livers when stress pushes them too far. So much easier not to overthink when you can’t string two words together. 

When he sits up, knife dog is right up in his face, his tail wagging furiously. He’s not actually scary without a blade, but the way he was able to sneak so quietly is a little unnerving. Making a mild and fairly diplomatic comment gets him a response with a protective, parental edge. Naturally Nando has already bonded with the creature that stabbed him. Not simple forgiveness, oh no, he’s already doting on him. Schmidt hates how utterly inexplicable and endearing it is.

He’s not able to mull over it long, because there’s a shout from the bedroom, and he rushes over in quick strides, pushes the door all the way into the wall. A man has a knife to Nando’s throat. Might already have used it on Jenny.

In his high school psych class, they learned about fight or flight. How volatile situations would make the sympathetic nervous system sing, pump the body with norepinephrine and other hormones. Enhancing senses, increasing blood flow to muscles, all the things one needed to make a go of it, one way or another. He feels it now, like a lightning strike, making everything burn. 

This time is different though. Usually he leans towards flight, towards running and hiding and making himself small. Safe. Now, he wants violence, wants to bear his teeth and snarl. He’s not leaning against the doorframe, he’s bracing himself against it, ready to push himself forward. The shivers aren’t all fear, there’s rage there too. Fury in his flushed skin. But still, his brain hasn’t gone fully feral, holds him back. 

Schmidt won’t win this fight, and there’s no point at all in getting them all killed. His phone is his only weapon, and he’s prepared to use it. Then the knife moves closer to flesh, a promise made that he’s beyond unwilling to test. He doesn’t know what to do. All his routes seem to careen off of cliffs. Losses and dead ends. Blood. 

Then a curveball, shaking up everything. Not the fact that apparently Nando is a father, but the reminder. There is one other in this apartment, one who could do something, shake the odds in their favor. If he can just get him here. He’s never been more grateful that no one takes him seriously, because he can blow off his whistling as nerves instead of a plan. 

It isn’t part of the plan for knife dog to leap up and disarm the attacker, or for Nando to absolutely obliterate him once he can, but whatever. Call anything that has them all alive and well a win. 

He’s the one who calls and gives statements to the police, half-truths and interrupted questions. The relief he feels that Jenny is also ok is a force almost enough to unseat gravity. But he manages to keep it together, seem responsible and reasonable and only a little shaken. 

Schmidt goes to the couch, to Nando, with his second injury in two days. The little bandaid covers the wound easily enough, but there’s the beginnings of purple-blue bruising ringing the area like a bullseye. He apologizes, and Nando looks at him like he’s odd, says this wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t know. And it’s true enough, but intent is always secondary to result, and it’s been a rough one. He wouldn’t blame him at all for not wanting to stay. That doesn’t mean he wants him to go. 

‘Stay with me.’ he begs, in all but the words themselves. ‘I can’t promise to keep you safe, but I can give you stories, and I’ll always be there to patch you up after. I’ll let you keep your stupid, extremely weapon-skilled dog, and I won’t fuss over your bad taste in pizza toppings and pants. Well, not too much, at least. I’ll do everything I can to make you smile, make you laugh, make you happy. Please stay. We could match up so well, we already do.’ 

Nando, brave and beautiful and brilliant, hands him a business card painted navy blue and sunshine yellow. Says it’s a shame to leave a thing unsolved. Agrees the same way that Schmidt asked, indirectly, but no less real. ‘Yes, I’ll stay.’

Some things are worth the risk. 

**companion**

They go back to the office, because they can’t think of much else to do. Schmidt pins their solitary clue to the wall, stares at it helplessly, and then orders Chinese food. There’s no chairs yet, so they both lean up against Schmidt’s desk, wood cool and only marginally more comfortable than lying on the floor. Watson has already decided to do that, snoring softly a few feet away. Nando looks over with terribly unironic jealousy.

“We need a couch.” he demands, and Schmidt picks up a post-it from his drawer and writes it down. He adds trash cans, a water cooler, and after a moment of consideration, a dog bed for Watson. He’s really earned his place today. He’s not ready to forgive him exactly, but he’s perfectly willing to cooperate. 

“Nice handwriting.” Nando remarks, looking over his shoulder, and then snaps his fingers as he seems to remember something. “Oh hey, I’m curious. What’s with the whole fear of knives thing? Besides the obvious.” Schmidt tilts his head, considering. He’s brushed this off before, with other people. But that doesn’t seem fair. They’re partners. It’s something he should know.

“When I was eight years old, a drug addict broke into our house, pulled me out of bed, and put a knife to my neck.” he says, blunt and matter of fact. He doesn’t really have the energy to soften things, right now.

“Oh damn, that’s....” he trails, clearly not sure what he’s supposed to put there. That’s ok. Neither does Schmidt. All the words seem either too small or too damn dramatic. It’s not like this is his backstory, it’s just. Something that happened.

“Yea.” he agrees. “I didn’t handle it well. I couldn’t cry or scream or do anything useful. I froze.” he says, looking down at his hands, in lack of anywhere else that feels right to look. Returns his gaze to his face, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, when you’re talking to someone. Even if it makes him feel a little twitchy. 

“Did you get hurt?” he says, looking all concerned. Bunched-up eyebrows and wide eyes. It’s a new one, another detail for the vault, but not one he needs fleshed out. People shouldn’t worry about him. It’s not worth their time. He shrugs.

“Not really. A little scrape. There’s technically a scar, but it’s so faded that it isn’t visible. Easier to feel it.” he says, tilts his neck up in invitation, tracing one finger along the faint ridge. Nando carefully follows the path, soft at first, then with enough pressure so he can actually feel it. 

“That’s crazy, Schmidt.” he says, voice quiet, now that the space between them is so small. It reminds him of earlier, on the coach, before the assassin, well, freelance attempted killer, brought an end to it. There’s no one else here now, no police, no Jenny. Even Watson is asleep. “How did you get out of it?”

“My sister kicked him in the dick.” he says frankly. 

“You have a sister?” he asks, sounding utterly surprised, and Schmidt can’t help put punch out a laugh. Tilts his head forward until they’re almost touching, forehead to forehead.

“You have a _kid_.” he points out, arching an eyebrow.

“Fair enough.” 

“What are they like?” he asks, because he’s curious, like he always is, like he always has been. Doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Nando didn’t talk about them yet, it could be complicated. Unpleasant even. Still, he wants to know.

“Nadia? She’s smart. Stupidly good with the internet. Moody and incomprehensible more than half the time, but that’s just being a teenager. Funny, and really kinda sweet, though she hates to admit it. She’d probably like you.” he says, fondness infusing every word. Schmidt startles with the last sentence, not expecting it. 

“Really?” he says, and Nando chuckles. 

“Someone who understands Instagram, fashion, and probably at least enough about KPOP to not sound like an ‘old man?’ Yea, she’d think you’re cool as hell.”

“I don’t speak Korean very well.” he says in the language, formal and a little clunky. It’s been a while, and the American accent is clear even if it isn’t outright painful. Nando still looks a little amazed, even after he gets a translation. 

“Every time I think I know what’s up with you, you do something to surprise me.” he says, in a voice that’s soft in volume and full of something. Something Schmidt doesn’t know where to place, but has him nervous. 

“That’s me. Schmidt the weirdo.” he jokes, because if he’s in on it, it won’t hurt as much, right? If he knows what an oddity, a freak he is. If he rolls with it instead of getting sad or angry. 

“No! I mean, maybe a little. Everyone’s a little bit weird. It’s more like, you know.” There’s pink rising to his cheeks, this close Schmidt can almost feel it as well as see. “A really good mystery. Where all your assumptions keep getting turned over, all the way until the last page. Most people are predictable. You’re not.”

“Oh. Thank you.” he says, and Nando just pulls away and mutters something about stealing Schmidt’s food. 

He does end up eating about a third of his sweet and sour chicken, teases him when he finds out he only eats white rice. Leaves before ten, because he’s supposed to drop Nadia off at school tomorrow. Promises he’ll be back to help set up the office, and start really investigating their one-clue case. 

For the first time since they met - was that really only three days ago? - Schmidt goes to sleep without worry, without regret or self-depreciation. He has only one thought, crystalline and glorious, looping around and around. 

You can be my mystery, and I can be yours. 

**Author's Note:**

> this took waay too long but i'm so happy i wrote it. also i'm sorry karina


End file.
